The Storyteller's Tale
by DreamTailor
Summary: Clopin Centerfic. No Pairing. Clopin's life until he becomes king of the CoM.
1. Puppet

The Storyteller's Tale.

The day was marked by the setting sun in the west; bold colours and vivid shades of red and orange spilled over the canvas known as 'sky'. Not two kilometers outside the sleepy walls of Paris, a circle of brightly clothed caravans still buzzed with activity. Small children ran and screamed between the fires and laundry lines, women washed dirty clothes or cooked small meals for families who had not yet been fed. Men sat by the fires, drinking or smoking thin pipes, telling tales, gambling or working. One pounded nails into a rundown stall, another repainted small wooden figurines, and yet another, very much younger than the rest, wove a needle through thick, brightly coloured cloth.

Clopin, with a bit of thread hanging between his teeth, was no more than 19 years, or at least he suspected as much. He sat on an old wooden crate somewhat farther away from the other Romani people, too concentrated on his sewing to care for their scorns and jests. Clopin had been working on this little project for days, and it was almost finished, just in time for his parent's anniversary. He smiled as he imagined the look on their faces when . . .

A large, thick hand clamped down on his thin shoulder. Clopin jumped and turned swiftly. He stared up into the smoldering eyes of a familiar figure.

"Now, son, what are you doing over here?" His father asked, smiling as Clopin hid the project out of sight.

"It's a bit too late for that, and I've already seen it." His father laughed, a slight blush settling on Clopin's face. Defeated, he held out the bundle of sewn cloth for his father's inspection.

"I-It's your gift for your anniversary, it's not done yet, though . . ." Clopin stammered, ears burning. He started as his father bellowed a short laugh, spreading out the puppet in his hand.

"Look at this! It's me! He's wearing my costume too!" His father laughed once more as he admired the puppet from all angles, the tiny bells tinkling. "I love it! Where did you learn to sew like this? Certainly not from your mother."

"It's a secret," Clopin teased, "But now you've seen my present! The surprise is ruined."

" Don't be silly, boy," He said as he handed the jester puppet back to Clopin, "You finish it, and I will be doubly surprised when I get it again."

His father turned and began to walk back towards the centre of the camp, but stopped and turned, almost whispering, "Is there a match?"

Clopin smiled as his fingers tightened around a smaller box, hidden from view, that held the finished puppet of his mother.

" I'll never tell," he winked, a small grin creeping up his face.

"Bah," His father huffed, turning back to the camp.

Clopin looked back down at the puppet. It truly was a spitting image of his father: Shoulder length dark hair, large rosy cheeks, and a smile that grinned ear to ear. A large nose protruded for between two wide eyes. The body consisted of alternating blue and purple half-sewn segments. Small brass bells hung delicately from the golden jagged poncho.

The Trouillefou family had worked as storytellers, jesters and acrobats for as long as history and the minds of drunk men had known. Though their costumes changed every generation or so, the colours had remained blue, purple and gold. Clopin, the only boy of the two Trouillefou children, was destined to one day take up the colours and continue the 'family business'. But that was still a while away.

Sighing, Clopin carefully placed his puppet-father into the small box with its mate. Enough work for today, he decided, perhaps he would take a break and join the nightly festivities in the centre of the gypsy caravan. Striding quickly back to his own cramped wagon, the box tucked under his arm, he entered and hid the vessel under his sheets.

Just as he was leaving the wagon, his mother spotted him, curse her eagle eyes, and trudged over to him, his little sister, no more than three years, in tow. His mother was a stocky woman, clothed in mahogany, coined skirts, and her dark hair pulled back in a shaggy bun, covered mostly with a purple bandana. Her brown skin sagged slightly and was creased with age. She looked too old to have a toddler to take care of.

His sister, Lucille, jogged on shot legs to keep up with her mother. He smooth, brown skin was soft with youth, and her dark curled hair hidden in a bonnet. She was barefoot in an ankle length dress, which was dirty at the hems.

"Clopin," his mother huffed, "where have you been! I've been looking for you!"

"What do you need?" Clopin asked, smiling nervously.

" Please, watch Lucille for a while. I need to finish the washing."

Without a second thought, she scooped up little Lucille and dumped her into Clopins thin arms, walking away briskly.

He looked down at his sister, squirming in his arms. "Ma chère, you wriggle like a worm in a pinch of salt." Clopin puffed as he set her down.

As soon as her tiny feet were on the ground, she took of running, stout legs moving swiftly through the tents, Clopin scrambling after her. So much for his break. He sighted the tail of her skirt disappear behind a wagon. Moving quickly to the other end, he intercepted Lucille, who let out a short scream as he scooped her up into his arms. The wriggling ensued.

"Lucille, listen to me," Clopin said sternly, " I won't put you down until you promise you won't run away." Lucille stopped struggling, paused, and nodded her head slowly. Clopin gently put her back down.

And she was off! Clopin slid a palm down his face. Like he expected any better from a three year old.

To be continued.

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**Authors Note: I have no idea how this story came to mind, but I've been contemplating writing it for a while now. It will definitely be multi chaptered I can assure you. This is the first time writing for this character, and I don't believe he's too out of character, so that's a good start.**

**Comments, Criticism and such are appreciated!**


	2. No Knight in Shining Armour

Earlier that evening . . .

_"Clopin, tell me a story?"_

_"A story? But you are tired, Lucille, you wouldn't be able to stay awake for the ending."_

_" Please, I promise to stay awake long enough to hear the end!"_

_"And what kind of story would you like me to tell?"_

_Lucille paused._

_"A story about a knight . . . and a princess!"_

_" Well, I think I might just have a story like that._

_Once upon a time, there was a royal family who owned a large theatre in France. The King and the Queen had two children, the first was young and handsome, and was a knight in his father's guard. The second child was even younger, no more than five, but was named the prettiest princess in all of Europe. Her face was like a cherub's face and her long hair was braided with hundreds of tiny white ribbons._

_Now, the King loved theatre very much. Every night, he would take his family and see a play along with the other noble families of France. The plays were magnificent! Filled with bright colours and beautiful dancers, and everyone attending had a good time._

_The young princess was also greatly interested in theatre, and soon took acting lessons. She was so good that she began to act on stage with the others during rehearsals, much to her fathers delight. But you see, some of the play writers did not like the idea of the little princess acting, and formed a plot to steal the princess away._

_One day, during rehearsals, one of the writers stole the princess away, and took her deep into the dark woods. But the princess was no fool. As she was taken away, she dropped one of her tiny white ribbons, forming a trail._

_When the royal family had discovered the little princess's disappearance, her brother, the valiant knight, took charge of the search. He looked high and lo, near and far, but could find no trace. Finally, he stumbled across the trail of petite white ribbons, and followed them._

_He found the little princess in the arms of her captor, and drawing his sword, he slew the man. Taking his sister into his arms, he gave her a big hug and said,_

_'I'll always be here for you, and will protect you with my life.'"_

_Clopin looked down at his sleeping sister, smiling, wondering if she had even caught the last part of his story. After tucking her more tightly into the old, torn blankets, he silently left the wagon._

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A bonfire raged in the center of the circle of the caravan like a small earthly sun in the now dark evening. The light from the flames climbed up the tall trees around them and sparkled on the tips of the fine fir needles. Several gypsies laughed and sang, women danced and hollered at the men to join them, and the elderly clapped a beat or threw cards at one another, gambling away their last penny. But there was only one thing that bordered on the gypsies' minds tonight. Tomorrow they would enter the city and do what they did best: Sing, dance, preform magic shows, steal and beg

Clopin sang and danced with the others, and after feeling his legs could carry him no longer, he plopped down on the ground beside two men in deep conversation. Clopin's eyes focused on a pretty young gypsy girl dancing her heart out, but his ears tuned into the murmuring the two men exchanged.

"So I hear they've finally picked a new minister, which means the last one didn't come out of his little _fall_ to well then, eh?"

"Yeah, and a brute he is, this Frollo, no tolerance for the Romani people whatsoever. He says he's going to _cleanse _the streets of Paris. I feel right sorry for the people he's got locked up already. I don't think they be feeling the sunshine anytime soon."

"He's a murderer, that's what, I haven't seen one person walk out of the Palace of Justice since they've been dragged in."

"I wonder if most of them have the fortune to be dragged in there first before he finishes them."

Clopin felt a small chill run down his spine. Certainly not a pleasant thought to carry when one is about to enter the lion's den.

A small animal scuttling in the ferns behind made him turn swiftly. The men beside him continued their chat, not noting the slight disturbance. But as Clopin looked toward the noise, his eye caught something else, far in the distance.

Through the dense brush, a tiny pinpoint of light stood, flickering ominously in the darkness. Curiosity taking the best of him, Clopin rose silently and walked towards the bushes and the strange light.

"Oy, where are you headed of to?" one of the men sitting by the fire called after Clopin.

" I'll be back in a minute," Clopin replied, brushing aside branches and entering into the woods. The man turned his attention back to the fire, assuming Clopin was going to do his 'business'.

Stepping carefully through the thick woods, Clopin slowly made his way towards the strange light, using the light from the great fire behind him as a torch to help him see and avoid low hanging branches, gnarled tree roots and old, white stumps in his way.

The journey took only about ten minutes, and as he neared the light he crouched low and peered out from behind the bushes. Creeping closer, he finally had a clearer view of the spectacle before him.

The light had come from a smoldering fire, the glowing red coals breathed deeply as a breeze swept by. Minute flecks of ash and what looked like paper floated lazily in the thermals above and fell gently around the scorched stones that encased the embers.

Around the fire pit was a radius of crushed vegetation and footprints. But these were not vagabond footprints, for they were large and heavy, mingled with the prints of iron clad hooves. Some of the trees' branches had been hacked off roughly and the area smelled of sweat and dung. It was a soldiers' camp, and they hadn't departed the area too long ago. Clopin had a bad gut feeling that he shouldn't be there.

A high pitched scream echoed through the night, making Clopin jump. He relaxed after a second, it was normal to hear screams during a caravan party.

Another scream, and another. The screams soon blended together. He could hear cries and shouts from the men. Clopin's heart skipped a beat. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

He turned towards the direction of the camp, seeing the light from the bonfire in the distance. He tried to run as quickly as he could back to the camp, but the smoldering fire behind him illuminated the path poorly. He stumbled through branches and tripped over unearthed roots. Yet he raced on, the sound of thunder mixing with his racing heart. Thunder? The night was so clear though.

Sharp thorns and twigs lashed him as he stumbled once more. It was so dark, Clopin was taking too long to get back. He felt so powerless as the screams and thunder got louder. He could hear a child cry, then the cry was abruptly silenced. What on earth was happening?

The last shouts and cries faded, and the sound of thunder subsided. Clopin strained to hear a sound, any sound at all, but the camp was silent and the fire was extinguished. The acrid smell of burnt hair filled the air.

Finally, pulling himself through the last thickets and bushes, he entered into the clearing and froze.

Shreds of cloth were strewn everywhere. Colourful wagons were destroyed or burning. The ground was almost soaked with dark, crimson blood. Boxes and crates lay smashed and the earth was trampled by heavy feet. Tents ripped, banners and flags torn, and a child's small toy lay broken, drops of blood staining the wooden surface. In the bonfires place was a pile of smoking, lifeless bodies.

Clopin's knees grew suddenly weak, and he clutched onto the side of a destroyed stall to hold him up.

_No_, he thought unable to tear his eyes away from the familiar forms of his fellow Gypsies_, this couldn't be happening. This isn't happening. It's all a dream. I fell asleep. I hit my head. This is all some freakish nightmare . . . father is with his friends, and mother is still washing. Lucille is still dreaming in her bed . . ._

_Lucille . . ._

Gathering his strength, he tore his eyes away from the horrific sight, and dashed towards

his caravan. As it came into view, he felt a slight relief. The wagon was still in relatively good shape, other than a few broken boards. He clung to the hope he felt, the hope that Lucille was still safe in her bed, sleeping, dreaming.

He threw open the door, but as the door opened, all hope was sucked out by a cold gust.

Lucille lay still, eyes closed, brown skin now deathly pale. The covers around her torso were soaked in her blood. She didn't move. She didn't breath.

Clopin stood in utter shock. As if his mind had left him, he quietly walked back outside and shut the door. His knees finally gave way, and he collapsed onto the blood soaked ground. He started to retch, hot tears stinging at the corner of his eyes. His throat felt tight and constricted, and he took deep, shaky breaths. He closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to wake up, but when he opened his eyes again, he still faced the cruel reality, the sight of chaos, the smell of burning flesh and the metallic tang blood.

Clopin had never felt so empty or so numb in his life. He felt as if his mind was leaving him . . . He was . . . Smiling?

His head jerked up to the sound of quite mumbling and a dull pounding. Maybe he was going crazy.

Grasping at the side of the wagon, he pulled himself up, a mad grin plastered across his face. Slowly, he forced his legs to move forward, someone, someone was still alive!

Turning around the corner, he caught sight of four soldiers clad in heavy black armour, thick broadswords hung from their hips, glinting fiercely in the coals' light. The first was nailing a post with a parchment attached to it into the ground. The second held the post steady and the third and fourth held torches.

Sanity and adrenaline hit Clopin at the same time. He had to get away. If he was caught now, he'd end up like the rest, smoldering in a pit.

Clopin began to move backwards as quietly as he could. On the third step, though, he stepped on something soft, and the slight sound of tiny bells pierced the night. The soldiers stopped their work and turned swiftly.

" We missed one." Said one soldier, unsheathing his sword.

" Don't let him get away!" Cried the other, wielding his hammer as a weapon.

Clopin didn't dare look back as he ran. The sound of boots thumping down on the soft earth was confirmation the soldiers were pursuing him. He veered quickly to the left, crashing through the forest growth, not knowing where exactly he was going. The soldiers still followed, though the dense brush and heavy armour hindered them.

Clopin dashed behind a tree, but began to run again when he heard the soft _thunk_ of an arrow as it sank into the trunk near his head. He heard the soldiers shout,

"Get back here!"

" Follow the Gypsy rat!'

Glancing quickly behind him, Clopin saw torch light bobbing through the forest. He was losing them. Making a quick beeline through a few more patches of evergreens, he stopped and listened, hand covering his mouth to muffle his heavy breathing.

_Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk._

Three arrows buried themselves into the tree beside him, and one lodged into his right shoulder. Pain shot through his body as he grunted and dropped to the forest floor.

"I've got him!" He heard one shout. The other whooped and hollered like a pack of hound dogs. Clopin fought to stay conscious, he couldn't give up now . . . he wouldn't.

Getting onto his hands and knee's, he broke the shaft, the arrow head still embedded in his shoulder, and threw it in the opposite direction. A fresh wave of pain ran through him. He began to crawl slowly backwards into the brush, inch by inch, trying not to break any branches or leave a trail of blood.

He had made his way back several hundred meters by the time the four soldiers had reached the spot were they had 'felled' him. He heard angry shouts and watched the torches swing this way and that.

Then one called, " I found a broken arrow shaft in the brambles over here!"

Relieved, Clopin watched as the torches moved in the opposite direction. He continued to move backwards though, determined to get as far away as possible. After another few minutes, he crawled into a clearing.

The pale crescent moon shone down, illuminating the ground in a pale, ghostly white light. Fragments of walls sat crumbling here and there, the ruins of an old house or mill. Some of the walls still had arches for windows, and small saplings and weeds grew from the center of the destroyed infrastructure. It was serene, peaceful, quiet. All that could be heard was the soft hoot of an owl far away.

Leaning again one of the walls, he slid down into the lush night grass, welcoming the stones cool touch against his wounded shoulder. He breathed steadily, looking up into the cosmos.

Thousand of stars peeked between tree leaves as they journeyed across the sky. He had once heard a story from an elder about stars. When people die, they are taken into the heavens and turned into stars. The old were larger stars, shining brightly, a guiding light for travelers, while the young were turned into smaller stars that formed pictures that entertained earth bound children.

He searched the stars for his family, but there were so many . . . he couldn't find them.

Clopin began to trace the small flecks of light. He found Sagittarius, and puzzled at it. He could never understood why people called it the Archer, in his eyes, it looked more like a ribbon . . .

He stopped his thoughts suddenly. Yes, a ribbon. A ribbon that belonged to a princess, a princess who had a knightly brother, a brother who had sworn to protect her. But in the end, the knight broke his promise, the evil play writer had succeeded in stealing the princess away from him, and the family theatre had burned to the ground, taking all the noblemen with it.

Some knight in shining armour he was.

Clopin sighed and learned more heavily on the wall, his right arm felt strangely numb. He could feel the tip of his nose growing colder. His tired eyes began to close as he just sat, listening to the night, and soon after he heard no more.

______________________________________________________________________________

Marie was an old woman, her white feathery hair poofed out from underneath her shawl, her body small and wide, and her skin was like that of a withered apple. He back was so bent and her so knees knobby that it was required of her to carry a cane wherever she went, She lived in a small house with a tall chimney and a garden on the left side. A saintly woman, she was born and raised into the house of God.

Early every morning she would rise, eat a small meal of bread and butter, then head outside for her morning prayers. Always bolting up the isolated house before she left, Marie would take her makeshift cane and walk a path down to the ruins of Monsieur Bulbon's mill.

Though she had not known Monsieur Bulbon, she knew the sad story of the mill closing due to lack of prophet. After almost one hundred years and several storms, the old mill was no more than a few walls and a pile of rubble.

Marie, however, loved the mill. She would spend hours praying the rosary inside it. She had always felt a stronger connection to nature and God while in the scenic ruins, and had even spent time growing and maintaining a small garden of wildflowers.

Upon reaching the ruins, her thin shoes and skirt hem dampened by the morning dew, she immediately looked to the flowers, which were beginning to unfold, to see that they had survived the cold night. However, upon inspection of her garden, she found a wildflower that had not been there the morning before . . .

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"Sir, we've returned," a soldier announced as his three companions entered the great marble hallways of the Palace of Justice. They looked exhausted, grim smeared their faces and twigs stuck out from the plates of their armour.

The four soldiers knelt before a great black throne tipped with gothic spires. The man who sat there, though, was much darker than the throne. He was a man no more than five and twenty, though his hair had already grayed and his hollow face was adorned with high cheekbones. He was dressed in black minister's robes and a hat with a red trail hanging loosely down his back. This man was the newly appointed Minister of Justice, Judge Claude Frollo.

"Report the details," Frollo drawled, leaning forward in his seat, showing a rare moment of interest.

"The camp was obliterated and one man taken prisoner as requested, but . . ."

"But what?" Frollo asked, his face darkening dangerously.

"One Gypsy seems to have escaped. My men and I followed him into the woods, and he was shot down. We were not able to find a body. I am unsure whether he is dead or alive."

"He is of little concern then," Frollo sighed, sitting back into his throne. "It won't matter anyways, seeing as Gypsies will one day be no more than a fairytale." A gentle smirk stretch across his thin, pale lips as he pondered the idea. "And the tales shall tell of the Holy Man who sent those unholy demons back to hell."

To be continued,

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**Authors Note****: Well, A few people have taken some interest in this story, which is good. Either way, I will continue with it. I'd also like to apologies for it's fast pace, I know that peeves some people.**

**So, the ruins are based on the ruins of an old mill on the Ignatius Jesuit Center in Guelph, Ontario, Canada. This is where I have been taking classes for the past semester. It's a program where you learn out in nature, and we do a lot of farming, canoeing, skiing, camping etc. I really do love the course, and it's going to be hard to reintegrate into normal school.**

**Anyway, about the ruins. It was a mill that was built in the 1800's. Now, 200 years later, it's a few walls and stones. Some of the walls have brilliant arches where there were once windows. The original silo and old grinding stone still remain The ruins have no roof left, and in the center cedar trees are growing. It's truly awesome, seeing how nature is taking back the area that was once field and stone. I was really inspired by these, and was planning to include a ruin scene in the story because of them way back when this story first came to mind.**

**In the class we get solo time, which is usually 1- 2 hours of free time exploring the property and reflecting. I've always felt a very powerful presence of nature/God while siting amoung the stone arches. It really is a wonderful place.**

**Enough talking now. Stay tuned.**


	3. Cottage

Cottage

Marie gasped in shock, almost dropping her rosary. A young man, hardly more than a boy in her eyes, lay against a crumbled wall, a streak of dark crimson stained the stone where he had slid to the ground. She hobbled over as fast as her old knees could carry her, her mind racing. The boy was wet from dew and sweat, his dark hair plastered to his sun-kissed skin. The right sleeve of his bright clothes was soaked in blood.

Dropping to her knees, a rather uncomfortable thing to do, Marie placed her hand over his, looking for a sign of life. A chill ran up her arm when she felt how cold his skin was. She dug her fingers into his thin wrist, feeling his heartbeat. She noticed his chest rising and falling. He still breathed.

Maire let go of his wrist mind racing with questions. Pausing, ignoring the growing pain in her knees, she began to inwardly debate what she'd do next. Should she wake him up? He obviously needed help, though she feared if he were to awaken he would go into shock. The boy was small and thin and she didn't doubt she could carry him if her old frame could handle it. Had he gotten to her twenty years earlier that might've been an option. Taking a deep breath, she gently shook his uninjured shoulder.

The young man's face scrunched at her touch, then slowly he opened his eyes. Marie could tell there was something wrong immediately. The boy's eyes seemed cloudy and he was unresponsive. Marie softly called to him but he did not seem to hear her. She had to get him back to her cottage, staying there in the ruins would do him no good.

"Come dear, let's get up," Marie coaxed as she pulled him to his feet, "there we are, good."

She quickly put her thick arm around his waist when the boy suddenly slumped. This may be harder than she thought.

" Alright, one step at a time," she said to herself more than to the boy. Taking a small step forward, she pulled the boy with her, using her weight to support him. The boy placed out a foot and slowly began to walk with her.

" Good," She encouraged, "good, keep going."

They had finally left the site of the ruins and now walked awkwardly down the trail that led to Marie's small cabin. A few times the boy fell limp for a moment, and Marie would brace herself, keeping him upright. After he got a hold of himself, they would resume their journey.

Marie let out a sigh of relief as her home came into view, a sanctuary for her aching bones. Shuffling her way down the stone path to the door, she opened it and stepped inside, welcomed by warm air and the smell of fresh bread. Leading the boy to her room, she gently propped him onto her small bed. Marie looked him over once more. She noticed thin, shallow scratches trailing randomly across his exposed skin, and small tears in his clothes. Good Lord, what had he been through? She focused back onto his eyes, which were heavy with exhaustion. The boy still seemed detached from the real world. It worried her.

"Stay right here and make yourself at home," she said soothingly, knowing that not a word of hers was acknowledged. Marie hobbled out of the room into a small kitchenette and rummaged through her many cupboards to find bandages, her sewing box, a white shirt and a pair of her old work pants. They were too big for him, but at least it was something for his to wear while she mended his clothes. Before going back into the room, she lit a small fire and filled an old iron kettle with water. Hot water would be better for cleaning him up.

As she reentered the room though, she found the boy curled up on the bed, asleep, eyes tightly closed and breathing deeply. She smiled slightly at the sight. It was good that he was resting though, not only was it a good sign of recovery, but it helped her get her work done quicker. Pulling his shirt over his head, Marie took a closer look at the wound at the back of his shoulder. She shuddered when she discovered the small arrowhead buried in it. That wouldn't be fun getting out.

Marie quickly wiped away some of the blood with a dry cloth, seeing as her water wasn't boiled yet. Once the water boiled she would clean the wound better, but for now, that arrowhead had to come out. She pinched the cloth to the end of the arrowhead with one hand, and held her other hand firmly down on the boy's back

_Alright, don't panic,_ she calmed herself, _pull it out quick and it won't be as painful._ Sucking in a deep breath, she yanked out the iron invader in one swift motion. Marie felt the boy tense underneath her palm, and a small groan escaped him as his hand clenched the sheets tightly, but still he remained unconscious. Marie let out her breath as she pressed the cloth down, stanching the fresh flow of blood. She quickly dropped the arrowhead into her apron pocket. A bit nauseated, she promised herself she would never try that again.

Once the bleeding had stopped, she wrapped his shoulder and replaced his torn shirt with the fresh, white, button up shirt she had brought. Pulling her old wicker rocking chair by the bedside, she opened her sewing kit and threaded a needle. sewing his ripped garments would help pass the time while she waited for the water to boil.

Questions began to cross her mind as Marie wove the thread and needle through the cloth. Who was this boy, and how did he end up in this state? She knew a Gypsy when she saw one, and there was no doubt in her mind that the boy was indeed Romani, but most talk about Gypsies wasn't good talk, especially those days. Her hand wandered to her pocket for a moment. The boy had been shot at, which meant he was probably up to no good before she got to him. Was she hiding a criminal? Should she have just turned the boy into the authorities? The thought hadn't even crossed her mind when she had first found him.

It only left Marie to wonder if the city guard would come pounding at her door.

No, Marie thought, shaking her head of the doubtful questions. Criminal or not, she had done the right thing by helping him. She was a woman of God, and it was her duty to feed the hungry, give water to those who thirst, visit the sick or imprisoned and so on.

Content with her train of thought, she focused back on the sewing.

* * *

_Clopin stood in the middle of the Gypsies' camp, watching as madness and chaos unfurled around him._

_People ran in all direction. Women grabbed children and ran for cover, only to be pushed back. Some men took up arms valiantly, only to be cut down seconds later. Elderly cowered in fear in corners, praying to whatever God may be out there, only to be discovered and thrown back into the center._

_Clopin tried to move, but his feet felt like they were cemented to the ground, and his arms hung useless and unfeeling. He stared in horror as men in black metal clothes began to press in around the Gypsies, driving them towards the great fire in the center. Some people they killed, some less lucky were thrown to the fire alive._

_The children were shown no mercy, their small legs couldn't run fast enough. They cried and screamed, and screamed, and screamed . . . _

_Everyone was screaming now, even the ones that lay dead. The screaming got louder and louder, blending into one. _

_Screaming . . ._

Clopin shot up from the bed he lay one, breathing heavily, sweat forming on his brow. He buried his face in his hands, a small shot of pain running up his arm. He took deeper breaths, trying to calm down. _It was all a dream, all of it_, he reasoned with himself. _You're back home in your wagon, and . . ._ _Why is there still screaming?_

He stopped for a moment, stopped everything, thinking, breathing . . . everything.

Slowly raising his head from his hands he took in his surroundings. He wasn't home at all. It wasn't a dream.

Clopin was in a small, plain room. The wood walls supported an assortment of shelves holding small flowerpots and painted plates. The bed he sat upon was not straw, but something softer, and the covers were thick. A small window overlooking a blooming garden filtered a dusty stream of light into the room. But the screaming still pierced his ears. _What _is _that? Not a human scream . . ._

After a moment he realized it was a kettle in another room. Turning to the sound of the scream, he jumped as he met the face of another.

An old woman sat upright in a rocking chair, one hand grasping her chest, the other clutching the arm of the chair. Small sewing implements were strewn across the floor around her Her eyes were wide with surprise and her mouth opened and closed as if to say something. Finally she found words and, nearly shouting, said,

"Good _lord_! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!"

Clopin was at a complete loss of words and could only stare stupidly as the woman regained her composure. She stood from the rocking chair quickly and hobbled out of the room. The kettle was silenced and Clopin heard a few clanks and bangs, still oblivious as to what was going on.

Finally she returned with a bowl of steaming water and a cloth. Sitting back down and pulling the chair forward she apologized.

"Sorry about that, you really scared me." The old woman dipped the cloth in the hot water and proceeded to wring it out. As she came forward though, Clopin withdrew.

"What's wrong . . .?" she began, only to be cut off.

"Who are you?" Clopin asked, still panicked and retreating to the far side of the bed, "where am I?"

The woman slowly put the wet cloth back into the bowl. Tenderly she said,

"My name is Marie. I found you out in the wilderness this morning, by some ruins. I took you back here, to my home, to help you."

Clopin relaxed a little.

"What happened to you?" Marie ask calmly. Clopin stayed silent for a long time, he couldn't trust her. Even if he could, he still couldn't swallow the reality of all that had happened, he'd only end up choking on it.

"Give it time, dear, give it time." She said softly, "but please, let me look at your shoulder first, I won't hurt you."

Clopin eyed the bowl of water sourly, then looked up at her, hissing in disgust, "I'm a _Gypsy_, why . . . Why are _you_ helping me? Wouldn't it be better if you threw me to the guards now?"

Marie drew back, a little appalled at the boy's attitude. Huffing, she shot forward and grabbed the boy's collar, pulling him towards her. The boy's face twisted into a look of utter surprise. Marie unbuttoned the shirt quickly, then spun him around and plopped him in front of her so that his back was facing her. With one hand firmly holding onto his shoulder and the other taking the cloth, she began her work, whether he liked it or not.

"I am a woman of the church, I am offering you a sanctuary, you thankless wretch. By God's name, you will sit here and let me fix you up! And for heaven's sake show some manners! You will NOT use that voice with me again, you hear?" Marie boomed.

Clopin learned a very important life lesson that day: don't underestimate the elderly.

"Now," she said surprisingly tranquil, "Tell me your name."

Clopin tensed, terrified of what move the old woman would pull next, "Clopin Trouillefou."

"Relax dear," Marie could feel his muscles tightening, which made the wound harder to clean. Slowly, she felt his shoulder loosen.

A few moments passed by in silence, Clopin became relaxed and Marie loosened her grip on him. After the wound had been fully cleaned, Marie pulled out a small needle. The wound needed to be closed. The hair on the back of her neck rose at the thought. How was she supposed to do this while Clopin was awake? Suddenly an idea came to mind.

Clopin sat quietly, cross-legged and hands clasped, waiting for Marie to finish with him. His ears perked up, though, when she started to hum. The humming was soft at first, but soon became louder. Clopins' eyes widened slightly when he recognized the tune. It was an old lullaby, a children's song. A lullaby he sometime sang to Lucille when she was restless or had had a bad dream. His brain burned as he drew up the fuzzy lyrics.

Marie continued to hum, listening closely as the boy begin to sing the lullaby under his breath. She hummed a little louder, and as she did, the boy sang a little clearer. Her plan was working.

After a few minutes, Marie stopped humming, leaving Clopin to sing the last word without her. After he finished the lullaby he looked back to Marie.

"All done," Marie sighed, rising from the chair and gathering up the bowl, cloth and sewing items that were cast on the floor. Clopin's hand timidly wandered to his shoulder where he felt tight, thick thread crisscrossing across his skin.

_When did she . . .?_ His thoughts were cut off as Marie called back to him from the doorway, holding his tattered shirt.

"Get some rest now, if you need anything I'll be in the other room." With that, Marie closed the thick door gently, leaving Clopin alone in the foreign room. Quickly but carefully, he re-buttoned the white shirt that Marie had on him before. He'd be damned, literally, if he broke the stitches now.

The morning was still new, the sun had barely risen above the low clouds and long shadows were cast by the trees along the clearing. Clopin drew his knees to his chest, and laid his head down, contemplating what he would do next.

He had never been alone before, he was always surrounded by family and friends. Clopin had some acrobatic skills, and he loved telling stories, but that would get him nowhere now. He didn't want to find a job, for he did not possess many working skills, but he didn't want to live off of Marie. Begging never appealed to him either. What was he to do now?

He sat for a very long while, just reflecting, trying to find some sort of clue or an answer to get him through this. Would it be possible to find and join another group? Or had most tribes ended up like his already, a smouldering pile of wreckage? Clopin lifted his head, noticing how far the sun had journeyed across the clear sky. He felt uneasy, imprisoned in the room, though he could leave without the old woman noticing. Clopin didn't even want to think of the consequences of that however.

The sound of hooves hitting the soft earth outside of the cottage jostled him from his thoughts. The jingle of reigns and spurs cut the quiet clearing like a knife through butter. Sliding slowly off the bed, he walked quietly to the window and flattened himself to the wall beside it so as not to be seen by whoever was outside.

Through the dust panes of glass he saw two horse picketed to the rickety fence surrounding the garden. Clopin's heart skipped a beat, though, when he saw two black uniformed soldiers walking casually up the stone path towards the cottage door.

From one of the soldiers' belts hung a thick, dented hammer.

To be continued

* * *

**Authors note:** **Yay, I'm glad to see that more people are taking interest in the story! Thanks to everyone who's continued to read it, reviewed, favourited etc! This chapter was difficult to write for me, I didn't want it to seem too cliche and have an instant bond between Marie and Clopin. I had to constantly change ideas to make it seem more realistic. Clopin doesn't know who Marie is or what she stands for, so really, why should he trust her? Clopin will also start to develop a more lighthearted personality in the next chapter or two, so I apologize now for any out of character-ness now.**

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	4. Father

Clopin sank back against the wall in disbelief at the sight. Two of the four soldiers that had hunted him down last night were out there. How had they found him? He had left no trail, he himself did not know where he was, unless . . .

Clopin felt his chest clench tightly in dread.

Marie.

It was the only logical answer. The kindness, the hospitality, it was all just an act. While he was asleep she had probably sent a message to the guards, telling them a Gypsy had broke in. Clopin felt angry with himself, how could he let himself be so trusting towards this stranger? Had he not been taught better? Now he would rot with the rest of his kin in the abysmal bowels of the Palace of Justice. The thought sent chills down his spine.

How could she do this to him?

He fear intensified as quick knocks rapped the front door. Clopin looked frantically for an escape, but found none. The window did not open; even so, it was too small to fit through. The room had no other doorways but the one that Marie had exited. Under the bed was, no doubt, the first place the soldiers would look.

Clopin heard Marie answering the door. If he was going to be dragged away, he might as well listen to Marie's reason to turn him in. Clopin walked quietly over to the door, pressing his ear to the hinges, straining to hear their distant conversation . . .

* * *

Marie jumped as she opened the door. Two large men stood coldly on her doorstep, fully armed. The soldier with the hammer strapped to his hip spoke first.

"Good morning, ma'am."

"Good morning," she said, trying to keep calm. So it had come to this. She was hiding a criminal.

"We are looking for a young Romani man and would like to search the premises."

_Good lord_, Marie thought, _he's just a boy, what wrong could he have done_?

"I suppose the Minister has ordered the search?" She asked.

"No ma'am, the search was formed on consensus of the guard."

"What has this man done that's not worthy of bringing to the Ministers attention." Marie probed, growing suspicious.

"You are not at liberty to know this information." The second guard cut in.

"I am at liberty," Marie countered, voice rising, "by law I must know what threat this person may pose to me, especially if there needs to be a house search, or would you rather I go to the Minister himself and ask why two soldiers are performing these deeds without his say in the matter?"

The two soldiers stood for a moment, considering her argument. Marie stood as tall as she could, hands firmly planted on her hips, blocking the doorway. Finally the second soldier gave in, and said in a hushed voice.

"Frollo has begun an intensive search and removal of the Gypsies from Paris. Those who do not cooperate are dealt with properly." Marie pondered his use of the word 'properly'. The soldier continued, "Last night a Gypsy camp, who defied Frollo's law, was . . . _removed_. However, one escaped and is still loose, it is our duty to find this individual and rejoin him with the rest of the camp."As the soldier said those last words, his partner gave a small smirk, almost unnoticeable, but Marie caught it. Did they think she was so naive? "Your home is quite close to where this occurred; therefore we wish to conduct a search."

"But what_ crime_ has this man committed other than being involved with the troupe?" Marie wasn't getting any straight answers.

"None . . . yet."

"Enough!" the soldier with the hammer cut in, agitated by her stubbornness. "You sure are putting up a lot of resistance for such a simple matter."

"Of course I'm fussing about this, you're barging into my house without . . ." Marie was cut off as she was roughly shoved aside. She tripped over her foot while she tried to steady herself, and fell against the wall, hands scrambling for any type of hold. She found none and landed heavily on her backside, pain rushing up her tailbone. The soldiers walked past, ignoring her and began to search.

They tore apart her neatly stacked cupboards, rummaged through drawers and pantries, closets and storage rooms. They turned over tables, moved chests and cabinets, all while making a terrible mess of the place. Marie tried to get up, to stop this madness, but her knees were too weak and sore.

The soldiers finally approached the closed door that lead to the bedroom, and gently turned the brass knob. Marie felt like she was going to faint.

* * *

Clopin's heart sank while he listened to Marie. He was wrong, Marie wasn't turning him in, rather protecting him from the guards. He felt terrible, terrible that he had brought this on her, terrible for doubting her.

She was putting up a valiant fight, but as he heard a slight scuffle and the soldiers begin to search, he knew she had lost. Clopin clenched his fists tightly to his side. This was his fault, all his fault, and now poor old Marie would pay dearly for her kindness.

_Dammit all_, he inwardly cursed.

The thudding boots echoed in his mind as they approached the door. Clopin swallowed hard and starred as the doorknob began to turn. It was death in slow motion.

The door flung open, taking Clopin with it.

Well, almost.

Clopin stood between the open door and the wall beside it, the door hiding him from sight. The soldiers entered the empty room. Clopin didn't know what he wanted to do more, breathe a sigh of relief or smack himself in the head at this ridiculous, not to mention miraculous, hiding place.

He stood, petrified, like a moment caught in time, and listened, not daring to move, as the soldiers searched the room. Every second lasted a century, every breath a silent gasp, every sound echoing through him.

He heard the sound of a soft grunt and furniture being moved. Something fell with a crash to the floor. The floorboards creaked as the soldiers moved about the room.

The footsteps changed direction and began to move closer, closer. The steps stopped in front of the door. A second pair of boots followed, but walked further. A gloved hand slid around the width of the door, pulling it forward.

And the door closed.

The soldiers had left the room, closing the door behind them. Clopin still stood, paralyzed, and gazed upon the mussed room. The bed was moved from its original resting place; the thick covers were stripped away. A painted plate lay in pieces near the window and the rocking chair was overturned.

In the other room he heard a few quick words being exchanged. Then, after a few moments, the jingle of reigns and spurs was heard outside. Clopin strained to see through the window and found that the two horses were no longer picketed to the fence; he assumed the guards had left.

A small, drawn out sigh reminded him of Marie's presence. Regaining the feeling in his feet, he slowly reached for the brass knob, and, after some hesitation, turned it. The door swung gently open, revealing a room in shambles, not unlike the one he just left. Various objects were scattered across the floor, furniture was overturned and cupboard doors hanging open. Clopin's gazed wandered to the front door, which was wide open, and beheld a small figure sitting to the side of it, leaning against the door.

Marie sat on the floor, thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of her crooked nose and her weathered face wrinkled with frustration. Clopin walked quietly over to her and crouched to the floor, timidly placing his hand on her shoulder.

"Marie?" He called.

Marie jumped at the touch, removing her hand from her face. Her eyes widened and she threw her arms around Clopin. He ignored the awkwardness and the dull, throbbing pain in his shoulder and gently pushed her away.

"How on earth . . . I was so afraid they would find you . . ." Marie said, voice slightly faltering.

"Me too," said Clopin, daring to throw in a small laugh.

"Here, help me up," she grunted as she tried to stand. Clopin grabbed her thick arm and pulled her to her feet. After dusking off her skirt and apron, Marie looked Clopin in the eye and said sternly,

"You have some explaining to do."

* * *

It had taken a few hours, but the two had managed to get the small hut back in order. Clopin's shoulder protested violently, but he dared not complain. As they cleaned he quietly told Mary the whole story, much to his objection.

Mary turned to him after putting away a stack of plates, unable to say anything. Clopin remained silent; he just wanted to forget everything that had happened.

"How is your shoulder feeling?" Marie asked, breaking the silence.

"Better, what about you, all you alright?"

"I've had worse," she replied, absent-mindedly rubbing her back. "The place where your caravan was, that's not too far from here . . ." She paused, debating whether to continue or not. "If you're feeling well, I can take you there after a few days."

Clopin remained silent. Did he really want to go back to all that chaos? It all seemed so sudden, yet he felt like he had abandoned his entire life when he ran. Never to return, never to look back.

"I think I'd like that."

The next few days he spent resting, but it was hard for him to lie still for long periods of time. Whenever he got the chance, Clopin would help Marie. He learned that every day, early in the morning, she would go out for a walk to pray at the ruins, where she found him. Clopin accompanied her, but he didn't particularly like it. The trip was silent and awkward, and he wasn't much of a believer.

"Did you know him?" He asked one day.

"Know who?" Marie responded, confused.

"The person who lived here."

"Oh no, these ruins have been around hundreds of years, I never knew the man who kept it."

"Then why do you come here?"

Marie paused and contemplated her answer.

"I come here because, even though it is old and only a few blocks remain, it is a sanctuary. The walls protect me from the wind, yet still allow a gentle breeze, and the trees shelter me from the heavy rains when they come, and the sun when it shines too brightly," she paused, taking a moment to admire the small flower garden.

"And when people see the ruins, they think nothing of it, it is just rocks and rubble, but inside, something beautiful is growing."

After her prayers, Marie worked in her small garden beside the house, weeding and watering. Clopin helped her as much as he could, but the work was hard on his injured shoulder. He remembered some of the Roma from his caravan having a small garden on the back of their wagons, but he never realized how hard they were to keep.

Marie showed him a seed. It was a tiny thing, no more than a speck on her finger. Then she showed him what plant the seed would soon become.

"To think that a tiny seed will become such a big plant," Clopin said, cradling the seed in his palm."

"Every seed has potential. Every seed starts small, and if you care for it and nurture it, that small seed will sprout and it will turn into something bigger."

On the second night Marie checked his shoulder again. The wound was healing well and had already started to close, a good sign that he was past the stage of getting an infection. The two sat by the hearth that night, for a chill had descended on the area. Marie sat in her chair, sewing up the last tears in Clopin's clothing, and Clopin sat on the floor, enjoying the fire.

"One last question," He said suddenly. Marie looked up from her patchwork. "Why are you out here, all alone? How did you come to be here?"

Marie smiled slightly as she dug up the old memories.

"Well, once upon a time, I was married. I lived with my husband in Paris. It was there I had a son and I raised him to be a fine young man. I haven't heard from in a while though, he has not visited me for some years now. He joined the army and went off to the wars…"

"What was his name?"

Marie sighed, "Pheobus."

Clopin chuckled to himself. It was definitely an uncommon name.

"My husband and I moved out here when Paris was threatened to be attacked. We wanted to go somewhere quiet, and away from the busy streets of the city. We journeyed out her and built this small home. A few years back, my husband fell ill and died, and I've been here alone ever since.

* * *

On the third day, Marie decided that Clopin was well enough to make the long journey back to the caravan. Clopin was nervous though, his heart fluttered in his chest at the thought of going back to the site. He didn't want to see the destruction, but he knew he had to. He needed to go back and face the truth instead of have it haunting him for the rest of his life.

It took them two hours of rough trails to get to the main road, and another hour of walking to reach the caravan. Each step closer made his feet feel like lead, and the dread grew inside of him. What was he going to find was what scared him the most.

They reached what was left of the caravan.

Debris and boards lay scattered, and the skeletons of wagons lay charred on the earth. The long grass around the area had been dug up or trampled. A few singed, colourful banners still swayed in the wind. In the center the earth was bare and black, all remains of the fire gone.

And in front of the site, a sign was nailed into the ground. Clopin never really learned to read and struggled with making the words out. Marie helped him and read,

"Gypsies be warned.

Under the rule of Minister Judge Claude Frollo, all Gypsy people are to be handed over to the guard and/or evicted from the city. All those who do not comply with be dealt with without warning.

You are not welcome here."

Clopin's fists curled, his people hadn't known about this, there were no signs, nothing to make them aware of this rule. It was Frollo's trap, if they had only known; his sister would still be alive, running happily . . . living free.

"I'm sorry . . ." Marie said quietly.

Clopin just stood and gazed upon the charred earth and bare wagons with empty eyes_. At least the guards had cleaned up the mess they left_, he thought bitterly.

As he scanned the plundered area a small twinkle in the grass caught his eye. Curious, he ignored the wreckage and feelings and slowly walked over to the shining light.

He dropped to his knees and began pulling up the grass, trying to uncover the glinting object. After a small tug, the grass released its hold on the object. Clopin stared down in shock at what lay in his hand. It was a small puppet with a blue and purple outfit and hat. The little brass bells still hung from the costume and caught the light when the puppet moved. A rosy faced man with shoulder-length, dark hair starred up at him pas a large nose and wide eyes.

Mary shuffled up beside him and placed a large hand on Clopin's shoulder.

"What is it?"

"Father…" Clopin choked.

* * *

**Authors Note: ****Sorry for the long update time, as I'm sure you've noticed I've been more immersed in the Assassins Creed fandom. *Laughs nervously* I'll try to update this story more often. The next chapter this story really kicks off! Thanks for reading!**


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